


Due Care and Attention

by msgenevieve



Series: Full Circle [12]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Happy Ending, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-21
Updated: 2009-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:51:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She loves it when he treats her like the most precious creature on the planet, except when she doesn't, which seems to happen a lot these days.</i>  Set in the <a href="http://www.prisonbreakfic.net/viewseries.php?seriesid=72">Full Circle</a> universe, but you don't really need to read all those hundreds of thousands of words before you read this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linzi20](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=linzi20).



> Written for [](http://linzi20.livejournal.com/profile)[**linzi20**](http://linzi20.livejournal.com/) on the occasion of her birthday with much love and gratitude for the unwavering gift of her friendship. I hope you don't mind a little three-part story for your birthday? The packing boxes are calling my name this evening, you see, so I have to stretch this out over a few days. *hugs you tight*

~*~

 

Giving the circumstances, she can be forgiven for being a little slow on the uptake. After all, it's not every week you find out you're pregnant. She walks around in a pleasant haze for several days, only vaguely aware that Michael's habit of over-thinking every single thing in the universe has swiftly escalated. In fact, she's so blissfully distracted that it takes over a week to notice that his usual solicitous behavior has graduated from endearing to suffocating.

Ten days after they discover they're going to be parents, Sara decides that if she hears the words _let me get that for you_ one more time, she isn't going to be responsible for her actions. Having managed to convince Michael to let her prepare dinner (he's either cooked or brought home takeout every night for the past week), she pours herself a glass of chilled juice and contemplates the contents of their freezer, enjoying the welcome sensation of the icy mist kissing her heated face and throat. It's been yet another humid day, and while the air is now thick with the promise of a thunderstorm, she's beginning to wonder at the wisdom of insisting she be the one inhabiting the too-warm kitchen this evening.

_Pasta_, she decides, mentally flicking through the requirements of fresh tomato and basil and garlic. Quick and easy, not to mention something she suddenly _really_ feels like eating, a rarity at this point in time. Her choice made, she pulls the container of dried pasta from the pantry, then turns to grab the largest pot they own.

"Let me get that for you."

Perhaps she should be impressed Michael still has the ability to sneak up on her without her noticing, but the words _hackles_ and _raised_ are flashing through her head like a neon danger sign, and she knows she's had enough. She wraps her fingers firmly around his wrist as he reaches past her to the shelf next to the stove. "It's okay, I've got it."

"It's too heavy for you."

She tugs his hand down, putting herself between him and his goal. "Michael, I'm pregnant, not incapacitated." Even to her own ears, her voice holds a faintly strangled tone, and she's not surprised when he hesitates, his bright gaze holding hers. She can almost see the cogs turning in his mind, cataloging everything he's researched about pregnant women and hormones and mood swings. She hates to admit it, but the thought annoys her almost as much as being treated as though she's suddenly lost the use of her limbs as well as her common sense. She loves that he's so thrilled about her pregnancy (more than she can say) but she has no intention of spending the next six month trying to convince him she's capable of carrying out the simplest of tasks. "You've got to stop this, okay?"

A frown puckers his forehead as he gently tugs his wrist out of her grasp. "Stop what?"

"This." She nods towards the pot on the shelf, torn between the fear of sounding petty and the knowledge that she can't bear another six months of this. "Worrying that I'm going to hurt myself if I lift anything heavier than a coffee cup, not letting me cook dinner or do the laundry, suggesting I speak to the clinic about shortening my hours."

He lifts his hands as if in surrender, then drops them as if in defeat. "I just want you to be safe."

Her heart twists at his wistful expression, but irritation has her firmly in its grip, and she can't shake it off. "I'm a doctor, Michael." She flicks her fingertips over the worryingly limp bunch of basil lying on the counter, wishing her life was as simple as tossing together a pasta sauce. "I'm not going to do anything I shouldn't."

His mouth twists in a wry smile. "I seem to recall hearing those exact same words before. Ten seconds before you almost cracked your head on the rocks off the point, remember?"

Her irritation combusts, morphing into a cold rush of anger. "Seriously?" She stares at him. "I misjudged a wave almost a year ago, so I'll probably take unnecessary risks with my pregnancy?"

He looks pained, frustration dulling his usually vivid eyes. "I didn't mean it like that."

She steps around him, neatly avoiding his hands as he reaches for her. Her skin feels hot and itchy, as if it would feel like sandpaper if she let him touch her. "I'm going for a walk."

"Where?"

Her bare feet slap on the wooden floor as she hastens her stride towards the door. "Anywhere."

"Anywhere but here?"

The obvious distress in his voice momentarily stops her in her tracks, but she doesn't turn to look at him. If she looks at him, she will stay and pretend it doesn't matter, and she knows she desperately needs some solitude, for both their sakes. "Something like that," she mutters, her own frustration making her cruel in a way that would shock her if she could think of anything else but the need to be alone.

"There's a storm coming."

His voice is closer now, and she knows he's almost at her side. "I'll be fine."

"Wait, I'll come-"

Wrenching open the door, she closes it on his voice and walks away from the house. She watches her feet as they move, pale against the overgrown grass, then sinking into the soft clasp of the warm sand. With each step, she tries and fails to swallow the tears burning her throat.

_God damn it._

She walks down to the water's edge, letting the waves lick at her feet as she makes her way down the beach. The sky is dark with a thick bank of rolling clouds, turning the normally blue horizon into a dull gray, the scent of salt and brine and the promise of rain filling her nose. The wind stings her eyes, almost disguising the tears silently rolling down her face.

Smoothing her hand over the almost indiscernible swell of her belly, she thinks of the man she's just left behind. This should be so simple, because she loves him more than she ever thought possible, but life with Michael Scofield has made it clear that sometimes the simplest things are the most complicated of all.

 

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

~*~

 

In a concerted effort to stop himself watching Sara walk away from the house - or worse, going after her - Michael surveys the abandoned dinner ingredients littering the top of the kitchen counter. He _could_ start dinner in her absence, but he suspects that might do more harm than good. He seems to be making a lot of wrong decisions lately, and while he'd love nothing more than to resent her for pushing him into the role of clueless partner, he knows this isn't her fault.

Then again, it's not all _his_, either.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, he returns the tomatoes to the refrigerator, decides the basil and garlic can stay where they are, and wipes a small splash of olive oil from the counter top. After that, there is nothing left to do and nothing to stop him from walking to the French doors that open onto the deck and staring through the glass at Sara's rapidly disappearing figure. Even at this distance, he imagines he can see the tension in her shoulders.

Closing his eyes, he rests his forehead against the cool glass. The afternoon air is thick with humidity and the threat of a thunderstorm, but it's not the heat that's making his temples ache. Ten days ago, Sara had greeted him at the front door with a kiss that had made his knees quiver and a smile that had lit up her whole face. _The fish curry did the trick_, she'd told him, laughing through her tears. His heart had instantly lurched, almost as though it wanted to leap clean out of his chest and into her fluttering hands, his head filling with images of _that_ night in Kolkata. _We're having a baby._

He'd pulled her into his arms while the last word was still falling from her lips, kissing the soft shape of it from her mouth. He'd kissed her until she'd laughingly pulled away and wiped his damp face with her fingertips, and he'd realized with a start that he was crying. That night, they'd laid awake in the darkness and plucked names out of the warm air above their bed, his increasingly outrageous suggestions of _Phineas_ and _Brutus_ making her shake with laughter, her belly quivering beneath his palm. She'd still been laughing when he'd kissed her, then the only sounds had been the languid rustle of sheets and skin, a mingled sing-song sigh of breath as she'd arched beneath him, pulling him deeper inside her.

Since then? Since then, he's been floundering like a fish out of water.

He knows he's crowding her. He knows he's doing everything wrong. He's tried to explain a dozen times why he's doing the things he's doing, but the right words have failed him every time. How can he tell her that the thought of anything happening to her or the baby - God, _their_ baby - sends him into tailspin of horror he has only felt once before, the day he watched a dark curtain draw back to reveal his brother strapped to an electric chair?

This should be the happiest time of their lives. He _is_ happy, unbelievably so. How can he sour it with the darkness of his thoughts? How can he possibly tell her of the dreams that have plagued him for the last ten days, nightmares filled with blood and loss and pain?

Lifting his head, he presses his fingers against his temples, feeling the thrum of his pulse. The house is quiet without her. Too quiet. He hates that she feels as though she needs to physically leave their home in order to find some breathing space. He hates that he hasn't been able to make her understand _why_ he's so worried.

He pulls open the French doors and steps out on to the deck, and the scent of the coming rain fills his nose. The wind has picked up dramatically, and even this far back from the beach he can feel the faint sting of sand against his skin. He walks to the deck railing, gripping the smooth wood tightly as he scans the beachfront on either side of their house. Sara has been gone almost twenty minutes, and in that short space of the time the sky has grown much darker. The clouds are thick with a lush gloom, the high tide rushing over the hard sand with unsettling haste. The blackened sky seems to hang low over the water, the heavy bank of clouds rolling into the bay with a speed that makes his nerves twinge.

Sara is nowhere to be seen.

"Damn it, Sara," he mutters aloud, then turns on his heel and heads for the telephone. As he punches in Lincoln's number, he tells himself he's panicking over nothing. As soon as his brother picks up, though, he hears the tremor in his own voice. "Hey, Linc, is Sara there?"

"Uh, nope." He hears the rough note in his brother's tone, and wonders if he'd had another late night waiting for LJ to come home from wherever he'd been. "Should she be here?"

Michael watches the rain sweep across the glassy surface of the bay, coming closer and closer to the shore with every breath he takes. "She went for a walk a while ago."

"In this weather?"

Michael hesitates, not wanting to get into anything he doesn't want to finish, but it's too late. Lincoln has been an eye-witness on more than one occasion to the newly fraught tension between his brother and Sara. "Another fight?" His brother sounds amused rather than concerned. "Are you going for the world record or something? What was it this time? Did you tell her she can't color her hair while she's pregnant, or did you insist on researching the mercury levels of every piece of seafood that comes into your house again?"

Michael feels a dull flush creep up the back of his neck. "I wanted to lift a saucepan down from the shelf for her."

Lincoln sighs. "You've gotta stop smothering her, man."

Michael feels his jaw set into a mutinous line. "It was heavy."

"Michael." His brother clears his throat gently, but it's a rebuke nevertheless. "I'm not exactly an expert on how to treat a pregnant woman, but I do know something."

"What's that?"

"You just gotta go with the flow."

Despite his somber mood, Michael can't help smiling. "That's it?"

"Yep."

"Got anything else?"

"Nope."

"Great." Michael's smile fades as the rain begins to pound on the roof of the house. Given his knowledge of Sara's anatomy and the light summer dress she'd been wearing, he's pretty sure she hadn't been carrying an umbrella when she left the house. "If she turns up at your place-"

"I'll bitch at her until she calls you, got it."

That isn't quite what Michael had in mind, but he'll take it. "Thanks."

He puts down the phone just as the first crack of thunder whips through the air, and he's moving towards the hallway closet and grabbing his waterproof jacket and umbrella and heading for the door. Sara isn't at Lincoln's, which means she's either waiting out the rain under a random beach shelter which quite often plays host to any number of unsavory individuals who make a living out of loitering, or she's being an incredibly stubborn woman and walking in the drenching rain without an umbrella, hat or coat.

Either way, he's going to find her.

He only gets twenty yards from the house before he sees her. She's walking slowly along the sand towards their home, her arms wrapped around herself, her head bent against the rain and wind. The incoming tide hides her feet and calves with every new wave, but she doesn't seem to notice. She's soaking wet, her dark green dress plastered to her skin, her ponytail limp against her neck. He stops in his tracks, suddenly feeling foolish with his umbrella and waterproof coat. In that moment, she lifts her head, as if sensing his presence, and across the expanse of rain and sand and grey wind, he feels the change in her. She doesn't smile as her eyes lock with his, and his heart does an odd little jerking dance, tumbling against his ribs.

He shrugs out of his coat as she makes her way towards him, draping it around her shoulders as soon as she reaches his side. She gives him a wordless nod of thanks, gathering the edges of the zipper together across her wet dress, hiding her goosefleshed skin from his sight. He has to fight the impulse to gather her in his arms, contenting himself with a simple, "You okay?"

She nods again, then takes a deep breath that seems to come all the way up from the soles of her bare sand-encrusted feet. "I think we need to talk."

 

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

~*~

 

She usually enjoys walking on the beach. It's normally one of the highlights of her day, a time to shed any lingering stress or concerns and simply concentrate on the feel of her body in motion, enjoy the flex of the muscles in her legs working as they negotiate the often uneven ground beneath her feet.

She's not enjoying it today.

Today, she hardly knows which hard knot of tension curled in the pit of her stomach to address first. Back and forth, up and down, side to side, her thoughts frantically zigzag from one niggling issue to the next, making her feel faintly dizzy.

She loves living in this place, but she has days when she never wants to see the sand again. She loves her job at the clinic but she misses Katie every time she shrugs into her white coat. She loves being pregnant, but the thought of repeating her own parents' mistakes terrifies her.

She loves Michael, but -

Her throat tightens. She loves him. She loves being _with_ him. She can't imagine her life without him. Ever since she discovered she was pregnant, though, she feels as though she can't breathe properly unless she's alone.

She knows why. She's spent endless hours in group therapy, after all. She knows he worries because he loves her and he instinctively wants to help her shoulder this new responsibility, just as she knows she resists his efforts because she's too used to being the one doing the caring, being the nurturer. He needs to plan every tiny detail as much as she prefers to adapt to the flow of life around her.

It was always going to be a recipe for a mild form of disaster.

She thinks of how she'd turned her back on him and walked out their front door, how his face had frozen into a mask of helpless frustration. An uncomfortable rush of shame washes over her, as tangible as the water lapping insistently at her feet. All her talk of laying their cards on the table and being honest with each other, and she turns and walks away from him without even taking five minutes to try and make him understand why she can't bear to be micro-managed.

_Not one of her proudest moments_, she thinks darkly.

As consumed as she is by her thoughts, it takes her almost ten minutes to notice that she's no longer feeling overheated. When a sharp ripple of goosebumps zips down her spine, she stops in her tracks, lifting her gaze from the ground in front of her to study the sky.

What little sunshine there had been when she'd left the house has completely vanished, swallowed up by the black clouds that are now looming over the bay, looking as though they're about to burst at the seams. The wind skitters across the surface of the water, churning it into a frenzy of white and grey. It entices her hair to break free from its ponytail, sending long tangled strands whipping across her face, and flattens the thin material of her dress against her belly and thighs.

_There's a storm coming_, Michael had told her as she'd marched out of their house, and he'd been absolutely right.

She'd just been too angry to hear him.

As she wraps her arms around herself, the engagement ring on her left hand glitters sullenly in the eerie light, as if mocking her impetuous flight. She remembers the moment Michael had slid it onto her finger, how she'd been almost too overwhelmed to even look at it, preferring instead to look at _him_. He'd gazed back at her with a tender longing that warmed her heart and soul. The same way he'd looked at her this morning, and last night, and the night before that. The same way she wants him to look at her for the rest of their lives.

She loves him more than she's ever loved anyone. So what the hell is she doing out here?

Love, it seems, often bares only the faintest resemblance to common sense.

Shivering, she tucks her suddenly cold hands under her arms and begins to make her way back towards the house. She'd walked along the beach at a swift pace for at least ten minutes, though, and she suspects there's no way she'll be able to outrun the rain that's sweeping across the bay like a gauzy, grey curtain.

Her suspicions are correct.

She's still five minutes from the house when the sky above her opens, deluging her with the type of rain that stings the skin and drenches right through to the bone. After the sticky heat of the day, she thinks wryly, it could have been almost pleasant to be drenched to the bone, but not with the wind fiercely lashing every inch of her. She quickens her pace even more when the first rumble of thunder splits the air above her head, deliberately walking on the hard sand closest to the water's edge to hurry her stride, keeping her head low in a vain attempt to stop her eyes stinging.

As she approaches the house, she has the sudden sense of no longer being alone, something that comes as no surprise. Michael is standing stock-still on the beach, as if the rain has frozen him in place halfway between the house and the waterline. He's donned his waterproof jacket, and there's an umbrella dangling unopened from his hands. Even through the shroud of rain, the concern on his face is painfully easy to read, and her heart sinks like a stone.

He strips off his coat as soon as she starts to walk towards him, seemingly uncaring of the fact they're now both getting drenched. As soon as she reaches his side, he wraps the jacket around her bare shoulders, and the sudden warmth sinks into her skin. She can smell the lingering traces of his aftershave on the fabric, a woody scent that always makes her want to bury her nose in the crook of his neck, and she automatically pulls the jacket tighter around herself as she nods a silent _thank you_, her throat suddenly too constricted to speak.

He studies her carefully for a few seconds, his gaze sweeping from her white-knuckled grip on his jacket to her bedraggled hair. "You okay?"

There isn't the slightly hint of reproach in his voice, and her conscious prickles anew. She wants to tell him she's sorry, that she knows he's only trying to make her life easier, but the right words won't come. "I think we need to talk." The blood seems to drain from his usually tanned face, and she immediately wants to bite the words - the wrong words - back. She tries a smile, but it feels crooked on her mouth. "Although maybe we should get out of the rain first?"

"Okay." He makes no attempt to touch her. "Are you cold?" he asks almost conversationally as they begin to trudge towards the house, their feet sinking into the wet sand.

She huddles into the warmth of his jacket. "Not now, thank you."

He shoots her a quick, searching glance, but merely nods again. "Good."

_Well,_ she thinks unhappily as an awkward silence envelops them, _this is going just great._

As soon as they climb the steps to the deck, he reaches into his pocket for his house keys, putting his hand on her arm. It's the first time he's touched her since their argument, and the light contact almost makes her jump. "I'll grab a couple of towels." He's unlocked the door and vanished inside the house before she can answer, and she has the uneasy feeling he's doing whatever he can to delay their conversation.

He's back in a few minutes with two bath towels, and her heart twinges when she sees he's made a point of grabbing the one she usually wraps around her hair after swimming. "Thank you."

He gives her a quick, faintly hollow smile that only succeeds in making her feel worse. "No problem." He wipes the worst of the rain from his face and neck, drapes the towel around his shoulders, then walks to the wooden railing to stare out at the churning water of the bay.

Dropping into the closest chair, she squeezes a seemingly endless stream of water from her hair, then pats her face dry. He's steadfastly keeping his back to her, as if he thinks it will be easier to hear what she has to say if he looks at the water instead of her face. "Michael?"

She sees his hands tighten on the railing. "What?"

"I love you."

He gives her a startled glance over his shoulder, obviously not expecting her to start off with that particular declaration. Slowly he turns, finally facing her as he leans back against the railing. "I love you, too."

Her hands twist themselves in the damp towel draped across her lap, and she feels the sturdy shape of her engagement ring pressing against her palm. Lincoln had told her once, a long time, that while his brother might be a genius, he had a lot to learn about women. She thinks of how she's fought him at every turn these last ten days, and knows maybe it's time she admitted Michael isn't the only one who can be clueless about relationships.

She takes a deep breath, and the words are suddenly easy. "I love being here with you." His whole body seems to sag with relief, and guilt washes over her once again, knowing for certain now that her unexpected exodus had left him feeling unsure of her. Unsure of _them_. "I love our home and our life together. I want to have this baby with you more than I've ever wanted anything."

He doesn't smile, and his expression is still painfully wary. "But?"

_Just say it. Cards on the table, remember?_ "If you're this worried when I'm only three months pregnant, how are you going to feel when the baby's actually born?"

His tanned throat works as he swallows hard. "I'll be fine," he says flatly, and she can't help wondering exactly who he's trying to convince.

"You think?" Tossing the towel aside, she rises to her feet, closing the distance between them with two long steps. Her wet feet squelch softly on the wooden decking, her dress clinging damply to the backs of her thighs, but discomfort is the last thing on her mind right now. "You don't think you'll want to monitor their every waking and sleeping moment because you're too worried to let them out of your sight, even for a second?"

He flinches, and she belatedly realises she's raised her voice, each word resonating clearly with the irritation she's been trying to suppress for days. "You can't do this for the next six months, Michael, let alone the next six years. Your employees might let you micromanage them, but I'm not on your payroll, I'm your-" She breaks off, suddenly uncertain of the best word for exactly _what_ she is. _Fiancée_ sounds so formal, _girlfriend_ makes her feel as though she's sixteen years old again. In the end, she simply pushes semantics aside and keeps going. "We're in this together, and you've got to start trusting me with this."

He says nothing. Instead he looks down at his feet, his lips pressed into a tight line, and her frustration prickles at her like a bed of stinging nettles. "_Talk_ to me." To her dismay, her eyes are now wet with tears rather than rainwater. "Please?"

He lifts his head. Something that looks a lot like defeat flashes in his eyes, and his harsh sigh sounds as though it's been dredged from somewhere deep inside him, a secret place he's yet to share with her. "I haven't been sleeping very well," he finally tells her in a flat, too-even voice. "I've been dreaming a lot." Reaching out, he puts his hand low on her belly. "About you. About the baby."

She sucks in a sharp breath at the darkness in his eyes, an emptiness she hasn't seen for a long time. "Why do I get the feeling we're not talking happy dreams?"

His gaze flicks away from hers once more, finding solace on the rain-hazed horizon. "Sometimes it's Kellerman, sometimes it's Bagwell." His hand flexes against her abdomen. "Mostly, I don't see their faces. All I can see is your blood on their hands." He closes his eyes, his voice dropping to an unsteady whisper. "All I can hear is the sound of you and our child dying."

Her stomach contracts unpleasantly. She's made her way through enough nightmare landscapes to know it can be almost impossible to forget the images that come to life in your head while you sleep, but he needs her reassurance now, not her compliance. "They're just dreams," she says softly, covering his hand with her own. "None of that is real." She leans closer, pressing his hand more firmly against the gentle swell of her belly. "_This_ is real," she tells him fiercely. "You and me and this baby. _Our_ baby, Michael."

He turns to look at her, his eyes swimming with tears. "I don't want to lose you."

She can barely speak, her throat seeming to close up over the words she wants to say. "You won't."

He reaches for at her at the same time she steps towards him, her arms sliding around his waist as he pulls her into a tight embrace. She shivers at the first touch of his wet t-shirt against her, then the warmth of his body reaches out to hers. Her chin resting in the curve of his neck, she puts her lips to his ear. "I'm sorry."

His arms tighten around her. "For what, exactly?"

She brushes her cheek gently against his jaw, shivering anew when a light dusting of whiskers scratches her skin. "Walking out on an argument, for a start."

He draws away from her, his hands lifting to cup her face as his gaze searches hers. "I may have given you good cause."

She wants to close her eyes and lean against the solid warmth of him, but she resists, wanting to make things crystal clear between them. "You're hovering because you're worried something bad is going to happen, but you can't control the entire universe, Michael." She smiles at him, gratified when his mouth quirks in an answering half smile. "Sometimes you just have to cross the bridges when you come to them, not try to build them to your exact specifications."

His smile widens, his long fingers sliding along her jaw as he lifts her face to his. "I really hope that baby takes after its mother," he murmurs, then brushes her lips with a soft, sweet kiss that tastes like both an apology and a promise.

Her fingers tangling in the sodden fabric of his t-shirt, she opens her mouth to his kiss, the contrasting sensation of his cool lips and warm tongue sending a quiver of delight fluttering through her belly, then lower, a hot tendril of desire curling deep in her groin. Ever since she'd fallen pregnant, everything has felt a thousand times more sensitive, her nerve-endings eternally on high alert. The downside of this has been at times ferocious bouts of morning sickness, a new fragility that grips her stomach and tastebuds at the oddest hours of the day.

The upside?

The upside almost makes the morning sickness worthwhile. All it takes is a simple touch of his fingertips on her skin, a quick brush of his mouth against hers, and her whole body suffuses with need. _Just like now,_ she thinks feverishly as she presses her hips firmly into the cradle of his. Her anger had melted away long before he'd touched her, but now the feel and scent of his body is wrapping itself around hers, making her skin hum with anticipation. Suddenly she's very tired of talking, and all she wants to do is peel away their wet clothes and feel him against her and his hands and mouth on her skin. She dips one hand inside the waistband of his cargo shorts, her fingers following the trail of wiry hair that goes from his navel downward, finding silken, hot flesh that stirs to life in her hand.

He makes a choked noise in the back of his throat that sounds a little like her name. "Sara-" Sliding one hand around the nape of her neck, he strokes his thumb over the quickening pulse in her throat, the other hand lifting to trace the outline of her breast. She sucks in a sharp breath as her nipple puckers almost painfully at his touch, then a sudden gust of wind blasts across the wooden railing, showering them with a fine, stinging spray of rain.

They break apart, her breathless laughter catching in her throat, then he takes her by the hand. Given the hands-on exploration the wind had just interrupted, the chaste touch shouldn't make her feel even more breathless, but it does. "Maybe we should go inside," he says lightly, and she grins.

"I'm sure I suggested that at _least_ ten minutes ago."

"No, you suggested we get out of the rain." He picks up her discarded towel and slings it over his shoulder. "Which, technically, we did."

"So pedantic," she shoots back, earning herself another smile.

"It's part of my charm."

"Is that right?"

The telephone starts to ring as soon as they step foot inside the house, and she blithely ignores his pointed 'let the machine get it' look. She may not be working today, but she's a doctor employed by a small, busy clinic. She can't ignore a ringing phone, even on a rainy Saturday afternoon. "Hello?"

"Oh, you're there."

She blinks at Lincoln's abrupt greeting. "Where else would I be?" she asks, and then she sees Michael's face, and understanding quickly dawns. "I'm damp but safe and we'll talk to you later, okay?"

Lincoln chuckles under his breath. "Tell Michael I said hi."

"Sure will."

Hanging up the phone, she turns to find Michael carefully folding the damp towels and stacking them on top of the coffee table, an exercise in futility as they both know those towels are headed for the laundry. "You rang Lincoln looking for me?"

He smooths his hands over the towel on the top of his small pile, his fingers spread wide, carefully avoiding her gaze. "I thought you might have gone there." He brushes away a final non-existent wrinkle in the towel, then looks up at her. "I was worried you were going to be caught in the storm." Their eyes meet and hold for a long moment, then he smirks. "And I was right."

He might have longer legs than she does, she thinks a moment later as she puts her hands flat on his chest and sends him tumbling backwards onto the couch, but he seems to have forgotten that she's still lighter on her feet, even when she's three months pregnant. Then again, he didn't try very hard to get away from her when she decided to exact a physical reprimand for his irritatingly smug behaviour.

"What about dinner?" she murmurs, watching his hands as they slide beneath the bedraggled hem of her dress to explore her thighs.

"It's fine, I put some stuff back in the refrigerator and oh, _Jesus_-" he breaks off as she cups her hand between his legs, moulding her palm to the shape of his straining erection through his shorts. "Screw dinner," he says succinctly, and their conversation comes to an abrupt, welcome halt.

She shivers when her wet dress hits the floor to join his shirt and shorts in a sodden pile, but his hands are warm as they cup her breasts, his mouth hot as he kisses a line from the hollow of her throat to her belly. Her damp skin sticks to the leather of the couch as he pushes her onto her back, but she barely notices. His hands are on her thighs, opening her up, his lips seeming to find every single erogenous spot from her bellybutton downward. When he dips his head, she sucks in a sharp breath, her hips lifting off the couch as he presses his mouth to her, his lips and tongue tasting and teasing the thrum of her pulse, sliding over her slick, aching flesh in a slow, steady caress that almost turns her inside out with anticipation.

She comes all too quickly, her tongue pressing his name against the back of her clenched teeth, her body shuddering with pure pleasure. After a moment, he bends his head to press a lingering kiss to her belly. "I have a suggestion," he says softly, trailing one fingertip across her hip. His voice is lazy, but she feels the stiff brush of his erection against her thigh, and knows he's anything but relaxed.

"What's that?"

He shifts up her body until his arms are braced on either side of her head. He gazes down at her, his eyes glowing. "Let's get married."

"Okay." Smiling, she runs her hands down his sides to grip his hips, pulling him downwards until he's cradled between her thighs. Her engagement ring seems to glow against his olive skin, but she no longer feels as though it's mocking her. "When's good for you?"

He lets out a shaky breath of satisfaction as he shifts his hips, the thick heat of his erection teasing the tender flesh between her legs. "Tomorrow's free."

She holds her breath as he slowly moves over her, exhaling only when he's finally buried deep inside her. She can still smell the fresh scent of the rain on his skin, and she suddenly wants to devour every inch of him. "Tomorrow? Sure, why not?" A breathless chuckle rises up in her throat, then she sees the gleam in his eyes. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Always." He smiles at her, then his eyelids flutter shut as she shifts beneath him, angling her hips in such a way that his next words sound more than a little strangled. "I mean, what are we waiting for?"

She can't believe they're having this conversation now, when her head is still filled with talk of nightmares and babies and the way he's moving inside her is threatening to liquefy most of her major organs. "For both of us to clear our schedules for the same week so we can have a honeymoon like normal people, for me to decide just how pregnant I want to be on the day, for LJ to be home from school and uhm, there's, uh, _God_, keep doing that."

He does, rolling his hips against hers as he kisses each newly sensitive breast in turn, and the gentle scrape of his teeth against her nipples makes her feel as though she's about to shed her skin with impatience. "Harder?" She wraps her hands around his head, arching into his touch, desperately trying to increase the pressure. "Please?"

"Who's micromanaging now?" he murmurs teasingly against her skin, but he does as she asks, his mouth and body taking and giving in a relentless rhythm, and it doesn't take long before she's free-falling once more, clutching at him as everything grows tighter and hotter and harder, choking out his name as it all unravels in a soft implosion of pleasure.

"I can't-" His hands tighten on her hips, then he buries his face against her shoulder, a rough groan tearing from his throat. She arches beneath him, the heavy beat of his flesh mingling with the dying throes of her own release, flooding her body with a heat that prickles her scalp and curls her toes.

Some time later, when her heart rate has regained some semblance of normality, she realises that the storm is still raging outside and both the rain and the wind seem to be coming through one of the open windows in the living room. Michael is sprawled half on and half beside her - in deference to the couch's limited space - and the solid warmth of his body makes it easy to forget she's not wearing a stitch of clothing and perhaps should feel at least a little chilled.

She scratches her fingernails leisurely over his cropped head, smiling when he makes a sound of pure contentment. "How's April work for you?"

He smiles, his mouth curving against her breast. "An Easter bride," he murmurs without looking at her. "Very traditional."

She kisses the top of his head, then leans back against the couch cushions. "Traditional as in the season, or that the bride will be six months pregnant?"

He lifts his head, his chin resting in the hollow between her breasts, his vivid eyes locking with hers. "Easter means new life, remember?" He traces a swirl on her belly with his index finger, making her stomach muscles quiver. "We've got that part right, at least."

She gives him a sleepy smile as she reaches down to lace her fingers through his. "Actually, the best part is that you'll have something new to worry about and plan right down to the tiniest detail."

He blinks, then a slow grin spreads across his face. "And get _you_ off the hook for the next couple of months, right?"

She'd deny an ulterior motive, but she can't seem to find the energy right now, as someone seems to have removed every single bone from her body. "Precisely."

His chest quakes with silent laughter, tickling against her stomach, but he offers no retort. Instead, he rests his head against the curve of her breast once more, his breathing slow and rhythmic. She closes her eyes, wanting to savour the feeling of being utterly sated a while longer before having return to the real world and the prospect of mopping up the water they'd tracked across the wooden floorboards.

Finally he stretches, propping himself up on one elbow. Reaching up, he brushes the hair back from her flushed forehead, and gives her an endearingly uncertain smile. "Want me to start dinner?"

She looks at him. He's never going to stop being who he is, so she may as well use it to her best advantage. _It would certainly beat storming out the door every other day,_ she thinks wryly. "Thanks, but I'm overdue for my turn." She smiles. "You can mop the floor, though."

He opens his mouth, closes it again, then shakes his head, his resigned expression that of a man who had seen the bear trap on the ground and willingly stepped into it anyway. "I guess I'd better get dressed first."

She taps her lips with one finger, enjoying the weight of his intent gaze as she takes a moment to consider the mental picture his suggestion has conjured, then sighs loudly. "If you must."

He studies her for a moment, then leans down to put his lips close to her ear. The warmth of his breath sends a flurry of goosebumps dancing across her skin, making her whole body tighten, and she has the overpowering urge to grab his hands and press them hard against her suddenly tingling breasts. "I won't if you don't."

_She's learned four things today_, she thinks later that night as she curls her arm around the waist of the sleeping man lying beside her in their bed. Puddles of rainwater eventually dry by themselves, good basil will stay fresh for at least three days, their local pizza place delivers very late on a Saturday night, and there are times when the best thing to clear the air is some stormy weather.

 

~*~

 

"Let me get that for you."

Flashing him a grateful smile over her shoulder, she stands back so he can retrieve the jar of jalapeno chillies from the highest shelf in the kitchen cupboard, a jar that has been eluding her searching fingers for the last five minutes. "Thanks."

He tries to slip past her, stops, then looks down at her with a grin. "Uh, little room here?"

She follows the line of his amused gaze to the swell of her belly, which is still blocking the cupboard door, and feels a blush creeping up the back of her neck. "Oh, sorry." She takes another step backwards, silently pining for the days when she was completely aware of where her body began and ended. "I think I should tell you that I'm completely over this pregnancy business."

He twists the lid off the jar, then clunks it onto the counter behind her. "It's a good thing you're due in three days, then, isn't it?"

His tone is light, almost carefree, as though he hasn't been obsessively timing and retiming the route from their house to the hospital during the last month, as though he didn't talk her into packing her overnight bag and put it beside the front door over two weeks ago.

She snorts, pressing the small of her back against the edge of the counter. "Feels like thirty-three." She holds up her hands in front of his face, her fingers spread wide. "I swear I am going to have sausage fingers forever."

He laughs, lifting his hand to touch the chain around her neck where she's put her engagement ring and wedding band for safekeeping. "Unlikely, but in case that happens, I think they look just fine here." His knuckles brush against her skin as he slides his fingers underneath the platinum chain he'd bought her several weeks ago. "Need some help with dinner?"

"If by dinner, you mean my plan to melt some cheese and chilli in a bowl and call it _con queso_ dip, then it's all under control." She smiles at him as she rests both hands on the high curve of her belly, feeling the faintest quiver of life beneath her palms. "But you can totally open the packet of tortilla chips if you want."

He grins, his eyes never leaving hers, the single-minded intensity of his gaze making her feel as though she is the only thing that exists in his field of vision. There are still times when it makes her feel as though she can't breathe properly, but this definitely isn't one of them. "Consider it done."

 

 

~*~


End file.
